


Hunting Chooses You

by lapsus_calami



Series: No One Chooses This Life [5]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hunter!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 14:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4880560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a rawhead stealing children, and Stiles has one last chance to prove himself to John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Охота выбирает тебя](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13848669) by [hisaribi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisaribi/pseuds/hisaribi), [OhotnikiNaNechist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhotnikiNaNechist/pseuds/OhotnikiNaNechist)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a rawhead stealing children, and Stiles has one last chance to prove himself to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all! Back with chapter one of part five. Enjoy!

**Hunting Chooses You**

“Just give me one more chance,” Stiles said desperately tailing behind John as he walked from the library into the kitchen. Bobby was leaning against the counter sipping at a cup of coffee and Dean crossed behind them taking his bags out to the Impala. “Just one more hunt. I will do everything you tell me too. _Please_.”

“I told you in Sperry, Stiles. I can’t trust you on hunts, you can’t stay,” John said filling a cup of coffee for himself and taking a deep swallow. “That hasn’t changed."

Stiles squeezed his eyes closed and sucked in a shallow breath willing every part of him to stay calm. “Just one more hunt, John. That’s all I’m asking.”

John sighed. “I gave you four hunts from Philadelphia to here. You’re five hunts in and eighty percent of the time you don’t listen. One hunt will not change my mind.”

“Please,” Stiles repeated feeling like a broken record, but there was only so much he could say to convince John.

Bobby raised an eyebrow choosing that moment to pull a manila folder from a stack on the counter and toss it onto the table. The sudden loud slap made Stiles jump, earning him looks from the two older hunters though they didn't comment.

“Bobby, what is that?” John asked tiredly.

Bobby leaned back against the counter again glancing obviously between Stiles and John. “There’s a rawhead a few hours west of here. Was going to take care of it myself,” he said leveling John with a pointed look, “but maybe the three of you should check it out.”

“Singer,” John started scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Look, you said it yourself one more hunt won’t change your mind,” Bobby said. “So what’s the harm?”

“Damn kid will get himself killed, that’s the harm,” John muttered before dumping the rest of his coffee and stalking off.

Bobby sniffed then crossed his arms. “Well he didn’t say no,” he stated glancing at Stiles. “Better go pack, kid.”

Stiles sighed, closing his eyes a moment and feeling almost weak with relief. “Thank you,” he said.

“Do yourself a favor, Stiles,” Bobby said turning to start gathering dishes from their lunch together. “If you want to stay, try to trust them a little to know what’s best. Listen to John, he’ll do good by you.”

Stiles swallowed and ducked from the room without saying another word because his heart was pounding too hard for him to really hear anything else. His hands shook as he quickly shoved everything in his duffle only taking time to carefully pack his laptop. The zipper stuck as he pulled it shut, dragging part of one of his t-shirts in, and Stiles jerked on it roughly huffing when it seemed well and truly wedged. Scowling, he wrapped the shirt around his hand and yanked hard hearing the fabric tear just as someone cleared their throat behind him.

Stiles dropped his bag with a heavy thud, flailing backwards in shock and just barely managing to catch the lamp falling off the nightstand before it shattered on the floor.

“Nice reflexes,” John said crossing his arms and leaning on the doorjamb. “But you should work on that startle response. Won’t do you much good if you fall down the stairs when a spirit jumps out at you.”

Stiles bit back the nasty retort climbing up his throat, forcibly closing his mouth and righting the lamp. He retrieved his bag from the floor, damn zipper still only half closed with torn red fabric clutched in its teeth, and silently passed John to leave the room.

“Stiles,” John said, tone clipped and almost demanding.

Stiles rolled his shoulder under the strap of his bag and turned to face John, making sure to fix a civil expression on his face. “What?” he said, more than a little proud that he managed to keep an even tone.

“I just want to make clear what I expect from you if you come on this hunt,” said John.

Stiles nodded. “Which is?” he said when John remained silent.

“I need you to trust me.”

“Why should I trust you when you don’t trust me?” Stiles asked.

John raised an eyebrow slightly, taking a few steps nearer to Stiles who determinedly stood his ground. “Tell me, Stiles,” the hunter said moving in close to the younger man and pitching his voice just above a low rumble. “Of the two of us who actually needs the other?”

Stiles narrowed his eyes but said nothing because the answer was pretty damn clear, and it was obvious John knew that. He’d told Dean himself the other day. John didn’t need him, didn’t want him, but Stiles was back to square three without him and Dean.

“Dean tells me you’ve been doing good with hand to hand. Bobby’s impressed with your research. We’ll start you on firearms. You’ll be on point with us,” John said after a moment, switching gears from intimidating to casual fast enough that Stiles was still a little suspicious. “I’m trying something a little different here, Stiles, and I mean it when I say this is your last chance. You come with us on this hunt, you trust us, more importantly you trust me, and this might go in your favor. Can you do that?”

Stiles nodded hesitantly but said nothing. It was easier to lie with silence.

“Good,” John said patting Stiles shoulder as he moved by him in the hall. “Get your stuff in the car.”

Stiles clamored down the stairs after John offering Bobby a weak smile as he darted by. The older man waved at him and Stiles halted at the door glancing back towards the kitchen. Bobby leaned against the doorway and raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Got something to say, kid?” he asked.

“Just…thanks, Bobby,” Stiles said hiking his duffle up higher and drumming his fingers on the door. “For everything, I mean.”

Bobby sighed and inclined his head towards the door. “Go or John’s gonna leave you here. Again. And I can’t take much more of your nattering about vampires.”

“Thank you,” Stiles repeated.

“Get out of my house, Stiles,” Bobby said flicking the towel at Stiles. “And don’t lose my number. Call if you need something.”

Stiles nodded, offering the older hunter one last wave before jogging out to the car where Dean was talking to John by the trunk. John shook his head at something then climbed in the driver’s seat. Dean smiled at Stiles taking his bag and tossing it in before slamming the trunk shut. He clapped Stiles on the shoulder as he moved around the car sliding into the passenger seat while Stiles clambered in the back.

“So a rawhead,” Stiles started as John pulled out of Bobby’s driveway watching as the salvage yard fell away behind them. Dean turned in his seat and Stiles refocused on him. “What is that exactly?”

“A rawhead is a kind boogeyman,” Dean said.

Stiles arched an eyebrow pretty sure he heard the collective cry of a thousand children at the news. “The boogeyman is real?”

“A kind of boogeyman,” John interjected. “There’s a lot of lore for boogeymen. This one is rooted in Irish folktales.”

“Right. So rawheads, according to lore, live by pipes and under sinks. They drown naughty children and reward the good,” Dean explained.

“Sounds more like Krampus than the boogeyman,” Stiles commented and saw John give him an odd look in the review mirror. “I’m assuming the lore isn’t exactly accurate?”

“Not exactly,” Dean said. “Rawheads favor dark and damp places. Like basements but also caves, root cellars, or crypts. They prefer to feed on children, but won’t pass up a free meal. They’re big, hairy, fugly things with clawed hands. Not particularly intelligent, kind of like a smart dog.”

Stiles snorted at that. “So how do you kill them?”

Dean grinned. “That’s the fun part. You fry ‘em extra crispy.”

“So fire?” Stiles asked. “I’m beginning to see why it made your rule of three.”

“Not fire,” John corrected as they pulled on to the highway, west bound for Rapid City. “Electricity.”

* * *

Stiles stared at the small rustic cabin with a hint of distaste, duffle hanging heavily off his shoulder. It was more of shack really, with a crooked doors and missing shutters. One window was completely boarded up, and against all odds a small pile of snow was still surviving in the shade of the north wall. Stiles honestly expected the door to fly off the hinges when John yanked it open and ducked inside.

“Wow,” Stiles said letting as much sarcasm drip onto the word as possible. “Home sweet home.”

Dean chuckled clapping Stiles on the shoulder. “It is for now.”

“It looks like it wants to murder me. To death. Like it wants me to walk unsuspectingly though that door so it can slice and dice me into tiny itty bitty pieces in the basement,” Stiles said still staring at the cabin with furrowed brows. “Like a rabid family of inbred hillbillies are gonna burst out of the forest and hack me to an unrecognizable mound of flesh. Like an underground secret network of high officials want to lure me in, drug me, and murder me as a sacrifice to evil titan gods beneath the surface of the Earth.”

Dean narrowed his eyes removing his hand from Stiles’ shoulder. “Dude," he said handing Stiles another bag, "you watch too many horror movies.”

“There’s no such thing as watching too many horror movies,” Stiles said, sighing as he accepted the bag shoved in his chest and started towards the cabin.

“That is true,” Dean agreed shutting the trunk and falling into step beside Stiles.

The door screeched obnoxiously as Stiles pulled it open and he immediately felt the need to sneeze at the musty smell inside. “God, is this place abandoned? Are we squatting?” he asked then sneezed into his elbow.

“More like infrequently occupied,” Dean said dropping his bags to the floor with a thud and cloud of dust.

Stiles watched a mouse scamper under the small kitchen counter. “By what? The local wildlife?”

“By Caleb,” John said ducking back into the main room from what Stiles assumed was a bedroom.

Stiles arched an eyebrow. “Is Caleb a squirrel?”

John didn’t answer, ignoring the quip like he did with most the stuff that came out of Stiles’ mouth lately, and left the cabin. It was Dean who explained. “Caleb is a friend, another hunter. He owns like a dozen cabins all over the states. We crash in one whenever it’s near a hunt. Come on,” he said motioning for Stiles to follow him, “bedroom’s through here.”

Stiles trailed after him regarding the two beds, one queen and one twin, skeptically as Dean tossed his bag on the queen. He glanced around surreptitiously noticing the lack of any other sleeping option.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You don’t mind sharing, do you?”

“Ah, actually,” Stiles said fidgeting, “I don’t think, um, you know what? I’ll just sleep on the floor.”

Dean stopped unpacking, a half folded t-shirt clutched in his hand. “On the floor?” he repeated. “Stiles, I don’t know if you looked at the floor, but if the bathroom in Oklahoma was going to give you herpes this floor is gonna give you testicular cancer.”

Stiles sighed lowering his bag to the floor and hoping Dean wouldn't press the issue too far. “Where do you come up with those? Nevermind. But yes, I’ll sleep on the floor. You guys have sleeping bags in the car, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean said slowly, “but you really don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles said. “Slept in worse places.”

“But you don’t have to,” Dean said again glancing up at Stiles and returning the t-shirt to his bag. “I don’t mind sharing. I shared with my brother all the time and he was a total blanket hog. Kicked in his sleep too. And talked. Trust me, nothing you do will bother me.”

Stiles forced a smile pushing the prickly feeling growing in his chest down and scratching at the back of his head with a shrug. “It’s fine,” he repeated keeping his manner purposefully nonchalant. “I’m good on the floor.”

Dean refocused all his attention on his bag saying blandly, “Can I ask why you’re so intent on sleeping on the dirty ass floor?”

“It’s not that I’m intent on sleeping on the floor,” Stiles said picking his way across the floor and trying to figure out the best place to sleep. He wrinkled his nose at the generous piles of mouse droppings along the walls. “It’s just I don’t want to…share.”

“Oh that’s right,” Dean said snapping his fingers and shooting Stiles a superficial grin, Stiles could see the wheels turning in his mind, “you’re an only child. Bet you’re used to not sharing anything, huh?”

Stiles kicked at a pile of dead leaves in the corner of the room with a sigh. “It’s not that,” he said thinking of all the summers he and Scott had practically lived in each other’s rooms for weeks at a time. They’d shared a bed for years before Melissa and his dad had started mentioning using an air mattress or sleeping bag; even after the air mattresses had ended up abandoned half the time.

“Ah. So it’s me you don’t want to share with,” Dean concluded sounding a bit too even toned. “Would you rather share with my dad?”

Stiles barked out a laugh at the idea. Aside from the fact that Stiles was half convinced John wanted to murder him, the very notion of sharing a bed with the older hunter was absurd. “Hell no. Remember my rule on kissing? It goes for bed sharing too,” he paused cocking his head a bit before musing, “I mean unless it was my actual dad. That’d be okay.”

Dean pulled his bag to the floor and crossed his arms. “You’re not going to answer my question, are you?”

“I’ve already forgotten what your question even was,” Stiles replied adding in an exceptionally smartass grin that would definitely make Dean annoyed enough to drop the subject.

Dean sighed shaking his head. “Fine. I’ll get you a damn sleeping bag,” he said, then walked off muttering under his breath about how he hoped mice ate Stiles’ toes.

Stiles kicked the pile of leaves again wrinkling his nose. Probably best to sleep with his shoes on. And all his clothes. On second thought, maybe he just wouldn't sleep at all.

* * *

John drew his finger along the map creating a large sort of lopsided circle encompassing a large portion of the forest as well as three small towns. It was a lot of area to cover even if it was less than a fourth of the entire state park. Finding the rawhead in that would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack. “All the missing children are from one of these three towns. Four missing from Rochford, two from Silver City, and one from Mystic,” he said tapping the three towns arranged in a somewhat triangular fashion. “So far there’s been no reports from Merritt.”

“That town’s on a main road,” Dean observed.

John nodded. “There’s also no reports from Hanna,” he said tapping a town further north, “or any of the towns south of here.”

“That still gives us a search area of way-too-fucking much,” Dean said frowning. “No way we can cover all that on our own in the time we have.”

“No,” John agreed. “We need to narrow it down more.”

Dean made a low sound of contemplation leaning closer to look at the map over Stiles’ shoulder. “Well, rawheads are more likely to seek out—”

“Stiles,” John said interrupting his eldest. Stiles jerked his head up from where he’d been intently staring at the map for the duration of John’s briefing, mouth dropping open slightly and eyes wide like he couldn’t believe John was talking to him. “What do you think?”

“Um, you’re asking me?” the boy sputtered.

John sighed and Dean sent him a sidelong glance that John ignored. “Yes, Stiles. I’m asking you. You’ve been staring at the map so tell me what you’re thinking.”

Stiles dropped his gaze back to the map spread between them. “Uh, well, Dean said rawheads like dark and damp. So we should start by concentrating on the area’s by water. Here and here,” he said tapping a lake south of them and a reservoir by the largest town. “That would narrow down the search area and it’s likely the rawhead is in a cave or maybe a mine.” John gave him a curt nod unsurprised Stiles had made the connection and ready to share his final plan when Stiles continued, “Of course there is another option.”

John sat back narrowing his eyes a bit, “And what’s that?”

“Well looking for the rawhead here is like finding a needle in a haystack, right?” John and Dean both nodded. “So what’s the easiest way to find the needle?” Stiles asked. He waited a moment glancing between the two hunters before answering himself. “You bring a magnet.”

“A magnet,” Dean repeated sounding a little confused.

John put the pieces together quicker, frowning at Stiles suggestion. “You’re talking about bait.”

“The children are being taken every few days. It’s been four since the last one so chances are the rawhead will take another one tonight,” Stiles said. “There are three towns and three of us. There’s no way we can scout all the area around the two water sources before dark tonight, so what we should do is watch each town and see if we can follow it back to wherever it lives. Or at least narrow down the location.”

“You really like the bait plans, don’t you?” Dean asked as John tugged the map closer to him ignoring the bickering that began between the two boys as he considered Stiles’ idea.

Stiles wasn’t wrong. The chances they would find the rawhead today were slim; they only had six or seven more hours of daylight at best. The rawhead had already taken seven children and rarely took more than ten during each cycle so it was almost finished in this area. Chances were some of the children were already dead, but some were no doubt still alive which meant they needed to find the rawhead’s lair. The best way to do that quickly would be to follow the rawhead back.

“Okay,” he said neatly ending the argument between Stiles and Dean with one word. Both boys fell silent and regarded him expectantly. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’ll watch the towns tonight. Stiles, you’ll take Mystic. Dean, you’ll take Rochford. I’ll take Silver City. Stiles, if it comes to Mystic all you do is follow it back and mark the location on the GPS, understood? Won’t do us any good if you get yourself killed or taken.”

Stiles nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. And if we don’t find anything tonight, we’ll scout the lake and reservoir tomorrow,” John said gathering the map up. “Get some shut eye, you two. It’ll be a long night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and as always feel free to follow me on [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)
> 
> Next chapter will be posted October 4th. I will be doing weekly postings (every Sunday) until I finish the story completely, then I'll switch to posting twice a week. But for now they shall be weekly.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a rawhead stealing children, and Stiles has one last chance to prove himself to John.

**No One Chooses**

Mystic was a tiny town. Like _tiny_. Stiles wasn’t even sure it qualified as an actual town, not that he knew the qualifications for something to be considered a town. When John had first dropped Stiles off on his way down to Silver City, Stiles had thought the man had made a mistake. But, no, Mystic was a town literally composed of about two buildings and four houses. Honestly, Stiles doubted whether there was even another child to take from this town, but he supposed it made sense that John tasked him with this town out of the three. There wasn’t much to watch and chances were high the rawhead would be heading to Rochford or Silver City instead.

Stiles shifted on the tree branch grimacing as half his butt seemed to have gone numb without him noticing and rubbed his hands together. Even in gloves his fingers were chilled. He shifted again, moving to straddle the branch and leaned against the tree trunk. The cluster of houses and surrounding forest was quiet with only the occasional rustling of leaves from some furry critter or bird and the slight hum of insects.

It was kind of disappointing.

Not that Stiles actually wanted a towering child-eating boogymonster to follow back to its creepy lair, but at the moment anything would be preferable to sitting in the goddamn tree for another three hours.

He was just nodding off, head lolling uncomfortably against the tree bark and really a tree was the last place he should be falling asleep, when a shock of alarm ran through the air. He jerked himself upright twisting around to stare at the small flock of birds squawking loudly as they abandoned the trees.

Scrubbing at his eyes, Stiles squinted at his phone to check the time. It was early enough that most of the townspeople would still be asleep. Stiles shoved his phone back in his pocket quickly lowering himself off the branch and dropping to the ground as quietly as he could manage. He crept around the perimeter of the town towards the growing sense of wrongness.

When he finally caught sight of the rawhead he actually took a few steps back and hid behind a tree, struggling to rein in the irrational surge of fear that rushed through him. It was stupid, but in the faint light and surround by trees the sight of the rawhead hunched over and waiting was nearly identical to the scene that so often plagued his nightmares.

Taking a deep breath Stiles peeked around the trunk, crouching down into the foliage to stay concealed. The rawhead was large and just as ugly as Dean had warned. Long and matted strands of hair fell from the top of its head to its massive shoulders that were clad in ratty fabric. Stiles couldn’t make out its features well in the dark, but it seemed to have a large brow and a slightly elongated snout. He tucked himself back behind the tree pulling out his phone to tap out a quick message to John and Dean.

 _To: Dean, John_ **  
** Rawhead spotted. Sitting on it now.

John didn’t answer, but Dean sent a reply almost immediately.

 _From: Dean_ **  
** I hope u dont mean that literally

Stiles rolled his eyes tucking his phone away and craning his head around to check on the rawhead again. It was exactly where it had been twenty seconds ago. What the hell was it waiting for; there was only an hour or two before dawn. It was starting to make him nervous.

“The hell are you up to here?” he whispered to himself squinting at the creature. “Are there even other children to take from this dinky little excuse of a town?”

Almost like the rawhead heard him it started moving forward. Stiles frowned letting it get farther ahead before moving after it. He tracked it threw the trees to the edge of town, trailing behind as they approached the far house. The house was quaint, a small dirty thing that had probably once been white but was more brown now. On the one side a large bush was nearly overtaking the house itself, almost looking like a monster devouring the structure.

The rawhead crept up to the back, reverently stroking the single shutter next to a window before slowly easing the window open with more dexterity than such a creature should possess. Stiles crouched around the side of the house watching the rawhead slip silently inside. Stiles leaned against the house, letting his head fall back against the siding with a quiet thud and staring up at the stars.

It didn’t sit quite right, knowing he was letting a monster steal a child, but it was the fastest way to find the other missing kids. A means to an end, a necessary risk. Stiles had done worse for less noble causes.

There was only the faintest sounds of a struggle before the rawhead was slinking back out from the house and disappearing into the woods. Stiles sent one more message to the hunters that he was tailing it and gave chase, moving through the trees with a single-minded belief that the rawhead wouldn’t notice him. He kept his gaze focused on the lumpy sack bouncing gently against the rawhead’s back as they made their way through the trees.

His phone vibrated a few times as he followed the rawhead southwest from Mystic trailing alongside the creek for several minutes before heading deeper into the forest. They were most definitely heading towards the lake further in as opposed to the lake by Silver City, which Stiles supposed made sense; Deerfield lake was more isolated.

It was over an hour before Stiles’ phone began vibrating again in his pocket. He dropped further back, letting the rawhead draw ahead as he fished his phone out an answered it quietly.

 _“Where are you?”_ John demanded gruffly.

“Still tailing the rawhead,” Stiles whispered. “Headed southwest toward Deerfield. We just crossed over a road about five minutes ago.”

Stiles heard the distinct rustling of paper and Dean talking in the background before John asked, _“Which road?”_

“I don’t know,” Stiles said sliding around a tree trunk. “There’s lots of roads, and they don’t exactly have signs on the goddamn trees around here.”

John sighed heavily and Stiles winced because he really wasn’t trying to piss the hunter off. It just kept happening. _“How far have you walked?”_

“Again, John, I don’t know. I’m not a pedometer,” Stiles hissed still pitching his voice low. “We headed south from Mystic. Traveled along the creek for a bit, then crossed it and a road. Then there was another road about a half hour after that. And this last road about fifteen minutes after the last one.”

Stiles ducked quickly behind a tree taking a sharp breath as the rawhead halted and scanned the trees. He kept up a steady mantra in his head of _it won’t see me, it won’t see me, it won’t see me_ as John spoke urgently in his ear.

_“Stiles? Stiles, what is it? Did it see you? Stiles?”_

His heart thudded wildly in his chest, hammering against his sternum as he held perfectly still staring at the bark in front of him. After a moment he heard the rawhead grunt and begin moving through the woods again, twigs snapping and leaves crunching underfoot. Stiles peeked around the tree sighing at the rawhead’s retreating form and collapsing against the tree for a moment.

_“Stiles.”_

“I’m fine,” he said pushing himself upright and once again moving among the tree trunks. “Still tailing.”

_“What happened?”_

“Nothing,” Stiles answered. “It just stopped for a moment.”

 _“Did it see you?”_ John asked and Stiles could hear Dean talking in the background, directing John to turn down a particular road.

“No, it didn't see me.”

_“Are you sure?”_

Stiles sighed taking a second to focus in on the steady thrum of his spark singing through his veins. “It didn’t see me. I’m sure.”

John didn’t reply, speaking to Dean for a moment then handing the phone over to the younger hunter. Stiles frowned at the loud crackling of paper, presumably the map, then Dean was talking. _“Looks like the road you just crossed is State Prairie road. Dad and I are on Deerfield now. We’ll take State Prairie over to Dutchman which will bring us right down to the north end of the lake.”_

“Copy that. See you there,” Stiles said and hung up, sliding his phone back into his pocket as he paused behind another tree. The rawhead had paused again, just standing up on a small rise and faintly illuminated by the moonlight through the still slightly bare tree branches. Stiles frowned crouching slightly against the tree, bark damp and cold beneath his fingers, as he watched the rawhead. “And just what are you doing, Tommy,” he murmured.

Stiles crept closer to the rawhead hanging back a little as it disappeared over the hill. He ducked down as he reached the crest narrowing his eyes when he couldn’t immediately locate the rawhead among the trees. It was a steep drop on the other side, and Stiles had no idea where the rawhead could have gone. He paused for a minute before sliding down the slick bank and coming to a stop next to a large rock. The forest remained quiet around him as he waited, watching carefully for any sign of the rawhead.

After several long seconds of nothing, Stiles slowly rose to his feet turning to assess the woods all around him. He trailed along the edge of the hill frowning. “Where the fuck did you go, Tommy rawhead?” he muttered spinning as he tried to locate the seven-foot, child-stealing monstrosity. There was no way the rawhead just disappeared. “Oh Bloody-bones, come out, come out, wherever you are,” Stiles said letting his voice lilt a bit almost like he was calling a dog.

Stiles halted squinting towards a heavily shadowed concave into the side of the hill he’d just descended. An old and half collapsed opening into a mine was mostly hidden by foliage, cutting sharply into the hillside. Stiles bit his lip internally debating before approaching it cautiously. It smelled heavily of damp earth. He trailed his fingers along the damp wall as he entered, blinking rapidly in an effort to adjust his eyes to the near complete darkness and turning his focus inward to pay more attention to what he could hear and feel rather than what he could see. The dirt of the wall was slimy underneath his fingertips and the air swirling around him was chilled and stale. He usually thought cold air smelled fresh, but all he got from the mine’s air was must, mud, and a vague sense of something rotten.

There was no sign of the rawhead in the entrance. Stiles peeked around the bend trying to distinguish the shapes as rock or potential rawhead. It was difficult to see much of anything, and Stiles briefly considered pulling out his phone for the flashlight before deciding against it. A flashlight in here would no doubt attract the rawhead’s attention like a honing beacon.

His footsteps crunched lightly on the small stones, and his heart thudded heavily in his chest, tapping out a frantic tempo against his sternum. It was astounding that after everything he’d gone through something like this still caused his heart to race. When Stiles thought about it logically, it was kind of reassuring that he still had somewhat normal reactions to deliberately placing himself in danger.

He had just rounded another corner when a shadowed shape he mistook for a rock suddenly moved. Stiles flung himself back, ducking behind an outcropping of rock and timber. He held his breath, forcing himself to stay perfectly still and count as he listened to the shuffling steps of the rawhead.

Stiles jumped as his phone went off, scrabbling at his pocket to pull it out quickly, the buzzing of the vibration audible in the silence. The bright screen displaying Dean’s name lit up the mine brilliantly prompting a snarl from the rawhead followed by heavy footsteps, and Stiles wasted no time in ignoring the call and depositing his phone back in his pocket as he moved as fast as he dared deeper into the mine keeping one hand on the wall to orient himself. He took the first turn he came too, a right, darting down the corridor and taking the next right turn as well. He paused there, tucking himself back into a corner and taking a few gulping breaths to calm his rapidly beating heart.

Not a few minutes later the distinct sounds of the rawhead were echoing through the mine, and Stiles cursed himself for not convincing John to let him have at least some sort of Taser. Chances were he might be able to incapacitate it, _maybe_ even kill it though that was doubtful, on his own, but that would raise a lot of questions with the hunters he certainly didn’t want to try and answer.

The sounds from the rawhead halted, a deafening silence descending and Stiles frowned at the abruptness. He peeked out around the edge trying to differentiate among the shapes in the shadows. The rawhead was nowhere in sight; Stiles eased out of the crevice sniffing slightly as he tried to figure out the best way out. The hairs on the back of his neck pricked, a feeling of unease spreading down his spine and along his arms, an age old subconscious warning of danger he’d learned long ago to immediately heed. Stiles turned slowly, half aware already of what he’d see yet the rawhead standing so close, mouth open and rancid breath puffing over Stiles’ face still shocked him.

He flailed, falling hard to the ground as he scrambled away and back to his feet taking off blindly through the mine. Running blind in an old mine probably didn’t make it into the Top Ten Stupid Things Stiles’ Has Done, but it was definitely an honorable mention. He tried to take the same turns as before in reverse, but he was pretty sure he’d missed the first left and was in a completely new section now. The rawhead was still trailing behind him, Stiles somehow managing to stay just ahead. He took the next left he noticed, planting his hand on the wall as he ran along and wincing when a particularly sharp outcropping sliced painfully along his palm.

He’d just made another turn, not paying attention to where he was putting his feet when he felt the ground, or more specifically the wood, give way beneath his weight. The sensation of falling was never a pleasant one and Stiles’ cry of surprise was cut off abruptly as he landed in a freezing pool of water, which was not at all what he’d expected. For one terrifying moment he wasn’t sure which way was up or down, heart pounding painfully hard and roaring panic encompassing his mind, then his head was breaking the surface and he was gasping in painful breaths of air.

Stiles blinked rapidly trying to get the brackish water out of his eyes. The water stung and Stiles couldn’t see anything except a faint outline of the hole he’d fallen through. He coughed, spitting out more water and letting out a small whine of distress as he tried to find the edge of the pool and hit a solid wall. He focused on taking a few calming breaths before slowly working his way around the pool unable to quench the rising swell of panic as all he found was a continuous wall.

In fourth grade they’d had a whole day in class covering the dangers of abandoned mines, and there were all sorts of dangers in places like this. Poisonous gases or insufficient oxygen, cave-ins, extremely volatile old explosives left behind, ladders that were broken or fragile, deep shafts, and water. Pools of water could conceal holes in the floor or be found at the bottom of shafts. A person could drown the guest speaker had stressed. Scott had listened with wide-eyed attentiveness that day. Lydia had answered nearly all the questions the speaker had asked. And Stiles had drawn a flipbook on the corner of his _Stay Out Of Abandoned Mines_ pamphlet of a man falling into a pool of water at the bottom of a shaft.

He was going to be stuck down here. In a glorified puddle of freezing water. He could tread water for a few hours sure but eventually he’d get tired and then he’d drown. It was kind of pathetic compared to the many ways he’d almost died up to this point. Drowning in a school pool holding up a paralyzed werewolf under pressure of a rabid kanima was far more heroic than having plummeted into a pool of water in an abandoned mine.

Stiles paused, leaning his head against the wall and forcing himself to take as deep of breaths as he could manage and stop his racing thoughts. He could get out of this. It didn’t matter if the only way out was the hole he’d fallen in through. It didn't matter if it was all but impossible to climb out of such a shaft. It didn’t even matter that the rawhead was prancing around above his head somewhere. He’d get out. All he had to do was believe.

* * *

Dean frowned leaning forward at a sign of motion along the tree line before dropping back as yet another random animal darted across the road instead of Stiles. Dad shifted in his seat and even though the man wouldn’t say anything aloud Dean figured Stiles’ prolonged absence was grating on his nerves as well.

“How long are we gonna wait?” he asked reminding himself once again that Stiles shouldn’t be in any danger as long as he was just tailing the rawhead. The problem, of course, was this was Stiles and he’d been with Dean long enough for the hunter to notice he had some issues with impulsivity. Add in Stiles’ disconcertingly small sense of self-preservation and lack of knowledge about certain things supernatural, and you had a veritable recipe for disaster.

Dad shifted in the drivers seat, sighing as he leaned his arm along the door. “We’ll give him fifteen more minutes.”

“And then what?” Dean said. “Scour the woods in the dark for him?”

“We’ll call him,” Dad answered in a tone that distinctly said he thought Dean needed to focus.

Dean frowned slouching against his own door. “What if he doesn’t—Holy shit!” he exclaimed jerking away from the window as something heavy hit it hard with a resounding slap. It took him a minute to recognize the drowned rat grinning maniacally at him as Stiles, and he shoved open his door with more force than he usually permitted to be used against Baby causing Stiles to stumble back a bit.

“Heh-hey,” Stiles said through chattering teeth as he regained his balance and wrapped his arms around himself. He was shivering violently enough that Dean was slightly worried he’d knock himself over somehow. Shivering was a good sign though; it meant the idiot hadn’t managed to give himself hypothermia somehow.

“What the hell happened to you?” Dean demanded as he dove back into the car to grab the ratty blanket they kept in the backseat. Dad raised an eyebrow at him as he did so, muttering something under his breath that Dean didn’t catch. The driver’s side door creaked as Dad pushed it open, standing to lean his arms against the roof of the car and regard Stiles’ critically.

“What happened?” he said repeating Dean’s question with more authority.

Stiles gratefully clutched at the blanket Dean wrapped around him, pulling the edges together and breathing on his hands before answering. “F-f-fell in w-wa-water,” he said.

Dean furrowed his brows. “You fell into the lake?” he asked incredulously.

“No,” Stiles said shaking his head, or maybe just shivering, “in t-the mm-mine.”

“Did you mark the location on GPS?” Dad said while Dean tried to wrap his head around the fact that Stiles was unlucky enough to fall in a pool of water in a goddamn mine. Jesus, the kid was lucky to be alive.

“I, uh, l-lo-lost it,” Stiles said looking incredibly sheepish about the fact.

Dad sighed, swiping a hand over his mouth. “Do you think you can find your way back?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah, it’s this way,” he said preparing to walk off into the woods again. Dean grabbed his arm, offering a bit of support when he accidentally pulled Stiles off balance.

“Not now,” he said and Stiles stared at him in confusion before glancing to Dad who nodded his agreement.

“W-why n-n-not?”

“Dude, you are literally freezing. It is twenty-five degrees out,” Dean said amazed he needed to point it out at all. Stiles was still shaking beneath the blanket, cheeks a bright red while his lips looked nearly blue, and Dean was pretty sure there was frost in his hair. “We need to get you back to the cabin.”

Stiles blinked then gestured to the woods. “B-but the r-r-rawhead, the k-kids...”

“I'll look around for that mine. Dean, get Stiles back to the cabin and warmed up,” Dad said pulling the weapons bag they'd stocked previously from the backseat of the Impala. As Stiles opened his mouth to no doubt protest again Dad added, “Won’t do any good to have you stumbling around in the dark freezing your ass off. Get in the car.”

“I don’ s-s-suppose there’s a c-ch-chance of a h-hot s-sh-shower at the c-cabin?” Stiles asked sliding into the passenger seat looking at Dean hopefully as Dean closed the door behind him.

Dean laughed and shook his head. “’fraid not, buddy.”

* * *

Stiles looked kind of ridiculous swaddled up like he was, absently picking at the gauze Dean had wrapped around the cut on his hand earlier. He’d put on a long sleeved shirt, then a sweater, one of Dean’s sweatshirts, then his usual red hoodie, and his coat, along with a pair of sweatpants, and some seriously fluffy socks. The sleeping bag Dean had given him was pooled around his waist where he was sitting against the wall.

“How you doin’, Stay Puft?”

Stiles glared up at him, tugging his hood lower and pulling the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands. “Bite me.”

“Don’t be like that. I come bearing a gift,” Dean said holding the mug of steaming coffee. Stiles regarded him skeptically a moment then accepted, wrapping his fingers around the mug and hugging it close to him with a groan of appreciation. He took a sip and promptly wrinkled his nose.

“Ugh, this is awful. What did you do to it?”

“Nothing,” Dean said shrugging. “Just made it from beans that I found in the back of the cupboard. They’re probably over a year old.”

“Well, thanks for the hot mug of awful water,” Stiles muttered taking another tentative sip.

Dean grinned. “You know, the best way to warm up is body heat,” he said waggling his eyebrows at Stiles suggestively.

Stiles just rolled his eyes. “If you try to cuddle me, I swear to God I’ll pour this shit coffee over your head.”

“Can I just sit then?” Dean asked. Stiles shrugged and Dean took that as a yes, lowering himself to the floor next to Stiles. He shuffled over close enough that their shoulders were pressed together ignoring the sour look Stiles shot him. Stiles still felt cold, even through layers of fabric and every few seconds Dean could feel a shudder work its way through his frame.

“So,” Dean started, “you have a no cuddling rule too?”

Stiles raised a single eyebrow at him. “Don't you?”

“Sure,” Dean answered, “but I’m usually flexible about it when first stage hypothermia is involved.”

Stiles rolled his eyes again. “I don’t have hypothermia. That would require a body temperature lower than ninety-five.”

“You fell in a pool off water in a _mine_ at _night_ in South Dakota. I’m pretty sure your body temp was lower than ninety-five,” Dean said. “Still might be,” he added after a moment reaching out to feel Stiles’ forehead. The younger man scowled and pulled away, swatting Dean’s hand from his face.

“I'm not spooning with you,” he said flatly.

“Why not?” Dean asked keeping his tone purposefully on the side of teasing though it was a serious question, “I’ll have you know I come highly recommended, ask anyone and they’ll tell you I’m a joy to spoon with. Plus you’ve already kissed me so what’s the harm?”

Stiles snorted into his mug. “You have to let that kissing thing go,” he said.

“I will,” Dean bargained, “If you answer my question.”

“You mean why I won’t spoon with you?” Stiles asked scoffing a little at Dean’s nod. “Why do you even care? You really want to spoon with me that bad?”

Dean pursed his lips. The answer to Stiles’ question was no, not really. Sure, Dean _would_ because Stiles still looked like he was shaking apart with some of his shivers and Dean knew first hand how much hypothermia sucked, but the crux of it wasn’t whether or not Dean wanted to spoon, it was whether or not Stiles would _let_ him get that close in the first place because Stiles was all about keeping his distance. He’d done it both physically and emotionally to start, and the closer Dean got on an emotional level the further he pulled away. Aside from sparring, every touch since Stiles had told him about Ali was answered with a calculating glance and every even seemingly deep question was blatantly avoided.

“So bad,” Dean said.

Stiles sighed cradling the mug in his lap and slouching further against the wall. “No you don’t,” he said. “You just want to know why I won’t sleep with you.”

Dean blinked. “Uh, no, I’m pretty sure that’s not—”

“I mean sharing a bed, dumbass,” Stiles clarified.

Dean coughed, feeling a faint flush spread across his face. Both because of his somewhat gutter minded assumption and because of Stiles’ ease at reading him. “I’ve been thinking,” he said eventually.

“Thought I smelled some smoke,” Stiles remarked.

“Don’t be cheeky,” Dean said, “I’ve been thinking about what you told me at Bobby’s.” Stiles sent him a sidelong glance tapping his fingers along the mug. “And about what you said in Oklahoma. This Ali, the girl you were talking about, she died protecting you, didn't she?”

“I thought you said you weren’t gonna ask me anymore questions about this?” Stiles said focusing intently the coffee swirling in the cup.

“Ah,” Dean crowed a little victoriously, “so you _were_ listening that day.” Stiles glanced at him and shook his head in exasperation. Dean let his grin fade away speaking more seriously. “I know. And I'm not really asking for more information. I just sort of put some pieces together and was wondering if I put them together right. You said some of your friends died protecting you. Was Ali one of them?”

Stiles stared at his lap for a long moment. “She was.”

Dean stayed quiet for a moment, letting the silence envelop them before saying softly, “Can I ask how many died?”

Stiles shook his head and Dean thought he meant no, but then he said, “Too many.”

“Fair enough,” Dean said even though the answer gave him little information. One friend was too many, but the way Stiles’ answered implied it was more than one. “How long ago?” he asked.

“November.”

That wasn’t all that long ago. Dean closed his eyes for a moment, mentally counting back the months. “This past November?”

Stiles nodded shifting the mug in his hands. “Yeah.”

“Oh,” Dean said, a common response he had for Stiles lately, while he tried to gather his thoughts again. November was just over five months ago; no wonder Stiles was such an oscillating mess of emotional issues. “Stiles, I know that—”

“Hey, Dean,” Stiles interrupted quietly setting the coffee mug off to the side, “I really don’t want to talk about it. I think I’m just gonna go to sleep.”

Dean sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, you’re not.”

“Fine. I’m going to pretend to sleep here and you’re going to let me,” Stiles snapped proceeding to shimmy down in the sleeping bag and curl up facing the wall.

Dean sighed again mentally cursing at God for making him have to deal with this before laying down next to Stiles. He was half off the sleeping bag, right leg and arm resting against the dirty floor but he didn’t move, just shifted a little closer to Stiles so that his arm was pressed along the younger man’s back. Stiles stiffened but didn’t yell at Dean to go away, so Dean counted it as a win.

“I’m sorry about your friends,” he said eventually, staring up at the dusty ceiling and the many cobwebs clinging together in the corner. It was inadequate, those sort of platitudes always were, but he didn’t know what else to say.

Stiles shook a little more after that, faint tremors and shallow breaths. Dean didn’t mention it, simply stayed where he was. And if Stiles wanted to pretend it was just because of the hypothermia later, Dean would let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and stay tuned for chapter three next Sunday! 
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a rawhead stealing children, and Stiles has one last chance to prove himself to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I know, I know, I missed last Sunday. (Midterm, man, it's a bitch.) I'm so sorry, but everything should be back on track after this week. 
> 
> Enjoy chapter three!

**Hunting Chooses You**

“It’s somewhere around here,” Stiles said ducking under a tree branch. Dean sighed behind him in a way that clearly conveyed how much he doubted that. Given that it was the fifth time Stiles had said such a thing it was probably warranted. “I’m sure this time,” Stiles continued surging forward and skating down the steep side of the hill as he lost his balance. He caught himself before he completely fell, hand sinking into the damp leaves and the mud beneath with an unappealing squelch. Stiles wrinkled his nose shaking the mud off his hand the best he could before wiping the rest on his jeans as he looked around to regain his bearings. The trees looked far more familiar here at any rate. “This is the bank,” he said. “I’m positive. The mine is over this way.”

John and Dean followed behind, skidding through the dead leaves more gracefully than Stiles had. “You said that about the last three banks,” Dean grumbled under his breath.

Stiles ignored him increasing his pace as the shadowed opening of the mine came into view. It looked much the same as last night, shadowed and ominous. Stiles paused just off to the side squinting into the dark and trying to feel out whether or not the rawhead was inside. A faint breeze was wafting out, chilly and smelling faintly stale. Stiles scrunched up his nose feeling the beginnings of a sneeze coming on that he tried to suppress, covertly sniffing and wiping his hand across his face as he waited for John and Dean to draw up beside him.

“Okay, you boys know the plan. Stiles, stick with Dean. We meet back here in two hours,” John said.

Dean clapped Stiles on the shoulder as he gave John a halfhearted salute mumbling, “Sir, yes, sir,” and tried not the let Dean’s slap knock him off balance. Dean shot him a slightly speculative look but Stiles shrugged his hand off and followed John into the mine without comment. At the first fork John pointed Stiles to the left while he took the right. Dean pushed past Stiles, taking point while Stiles trailed along behind him and for once Stiles didn’t have the energy to protest.

They wandered through the mine, taking turns aimlessly but always making sure to mark the way as they went, for a solid hour looking for any evidence of the rawhead or missing children. Dean moved through the mine cautiously, checking around bends before continuing onward, peering intensely at the ground beneath their feet for tracks or other evidence of the rawhead. Stiles focused on ignoring the growing pounding in his head and the feeling of the mine. The mine felt old and expansive, but it also felt empty.

Dean was steadily getting faster as time slipped by and they found nothing, until he was swiftly striding down each tunnel with Stiles struggling a bit to keep up. The damp air of the mine was doing a number on his lungs it seemed, and the longer he was in the mine the harder it was to breathe especially at their new rapid pace.

He was so focused on his internal function of his lungs that he didn’t notice when Dean halted abruptly and instead ran right into the hunter’s back with a startled huff. Dean shushed him, flapping a hand back at Stiles while the younger man just tried to not fall over. Stiles cleared his throat, coughing discreetly into his elbow as he jabbed Dean’s shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked.

Dean shushed him again. “Thought I heard something.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Stiles commented. “What did you think you heard?”

“Obviously I thought I heard the rawhead,” Dean retorted.

“Well obviously you were wrong. It’s dead silent in here,” Stiles said after a moment, more than a little puzzled. At least it seemed quiet aside from the monkeys going apeshit in his head. Which didn’t make sense because there should be a rawhead and at least seven children somewhere in here. Even if the mine was a labyrinth of tunnels Stiles should be able to sense something, but there was nothing. No hum of life bigger than the crawling insects in the walls, and no afterprint of anything except the long gone echoes of miners. 

Dean hummed agreeably crouching down to peer at something on the ground. Stiles sniffed, wiping at his nose with his sleeve as he watched Dean inspect some tracks in the mud. After a moment he moved forward; Stiles cocked his head trying to see whatever had caught Dean’s attention but all he saw as squished dirt.

“You know, someday you’ll have to teach me how you read dirt,” he said.

“I don’t read dirt,” Dean said. “It’s tracks.”

Stiles snorted, though it sounded more than a little pathetically congested rather than derisively amused. “Looks like dirt to me.”

“That’s because the tracks are in the dirt, dumbass” Dean said.

“So then you’re reading the dirt,” Stiles stated.

Dean ignored him, forging on ahead down yet another tunnel. He paused, putting an arm out to halt Stiles before scraping his foot through the dirt to expose half rotten wood much like what Stiles had fallen through yesterday. “Careful. You don’t want to fall through that,” Dean said tapping along the edge of the wood until he found solid ground once more, inching by the potential deathtrap along the wall. “Watch the timbers,” he warned. “Jostle one too much and you could cause a cave in.”

Stiles waved a hand to indicate understanding and carefully followed Dean’s path. “Yeah, no thanks. One near death experience in this mine is enough for me. So what tracks are you reading in the dirt?” he asked.

“Some rodents here,” Dean said gesturing to the floor to his right. “Saw some of your prints from yesterday back at the start. Thought I had the rawhead’s trail but it seems to have disappeared,” he mused, leaning down to inspect something for a few seconds then moving on again.

“So we’re just wandering around down here completely aimlessly,” Stiles stated, swiping his sleeve over his forehead with a sigh.

Dean made an indecisive noise then shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. “For now anyway until we find something to go on.”

Stiles sighed again. “Perfect.”

* * *

“They’re not here,” Stiles said faintly nearly an hour later. He was leaning against the mine wall, looking pale and washed out by the flashlights. “Dean, the kids…they’re not here.”

“We don’t know that for sure. This mine is huge,” Dean said trying to stay optimistic and turning to peer down the options of tunnels. There were three here alone, and Dean doubted they’d adequately even searched a portion of the mine. Without a trail to follow, which Dean had yet to find, they were as good as wandering blind mice down here.

“No, Dean, they’re not here,” Stiles repeated sounding utterly sure. 

Dean gave him a speculative glance before shaking his head and stalking in a circle as he tried to decide what way to go now. “But that doesn’t make sense. You said this is where the rawhead went.”

“I know,” Stiles said sounding strained. “It is. I swear. It came here.”

“Okay,” the hunter said motioning his hands outward to encompass the tunnels, “then it has to be in here somewhere, doesn’t it?”

Stiles shoved his hands through his hair. “I don’t know,” he said then proceeded to cough harshly into his sleeve.

Dean sighed, pulling his phone out to check the time. “Our two hours are up,” he said. “We have to go meet my dad. Maybe he found something.”

“Maybe,” Stiles agreed though he seemed unconvinced. Dean nudged him in front, pushing Stiles to take the lead as they followed their trail back towards the mouth of the mine. The younger man coughed again, stopping and almost bending over in half with the force of his hacking.

“You all right there?” Dean asked, patting Stiles shoulder.

“Peachy,” Stiles grumbled, clearing his throat and drawing away from Dean. He pulled the sleeves of his coat down further over his hands and sniffed loudly as he started walking again.

Dean regarded him closely, mentally cataloguing what cold medicine they had stocked in their first aid kit. Neither Dad nor Dean got sick all that often, Sam had been the one more likely to come down with a cold, so their stock might be running a bit low but there was probably some decongestant or cough syrup at the very least. Dean made a mental note to offer Stiles some when they got back to Caleb’s cabin. Hell, he’d force it on Stiles if he had to; it wouldn’t do to have Stiles stumbling around sick because he decided to take a dip in a mine pool and then sleep on the floor.

A faint buzzing sound started up, barely audible in the mine. Dean stopped, cocking his head to the side a bit trying to pinpoint the sound. Stiles continued ahead, moving down the tunnel, unaware that Dean had halted. The buzzing sound ceased, and Dean almost brushed it off when it started up again. He backtracked a little, following the sound as it got louder, loud enough that Dean recognized it as a vibrating phone, to a darkened passage way. Beneath a pile of dirt and some debris Dean could see the faint shine of light. He frowned, crouching down and brushing the dirt away to reveal Stiles’ phone, turning slightly as it vibrated and screen lit up displaying an incoming call from someone named Deaton.

Dean picked up the phone deliberating between answering or not. Before he could make up his mind the call went to voicemail and displayed an icon for four missed calls, a new voicemail, and a text message. Dean bit his lip, glancing in the direction Stiles had gone, before quickly tapping the message icon and swiping to unlock the phone.

The message chat that was brought up was also with Deaton. The new message simply read, _call me_. Dean glanced surreptitiously after Stiles and scrolled back through the messages. There was one from eight days ago that Stiles had never answered that read, _are you safe_? The messages before that were all variations of the same question, _are you okay_ ; _Stiles, please check in with me_ ; _how are you_ ; _it’s been a while since you called._ Further back were short conversations, Stiles never replying more than a few words, only a mix of, _yes, okay, no, fine,_ and one snarky _because you’re not my alpha_.

Dean frowned at that one wondering what the hell Stiles meant by alpha. The response from Deaton just read, _well that could be arranged._ Stiles’ answer was short and final, a blunt _no_ complete with a capital N and a period.

Locking the phone once more, Dean wiped the dirt from it best he could. Without the light shining from behind he could see that it looked like mud had been smeared across the screen. On the back were distinct fingerprints and a larger clump of mud clinging just beneath the camera. He wondered when Stiles had dropped it and was just about to move away when he noticed a significantly darker section of the floor a foot or so ahead. He tucked Stiles’ phone into his pocket and pulled out his flashlight again pressing the power button with his thumb as he moved towards the hole.

There as a large portion of wood laid over the ground and Dean made sure to halt before it, leaning forward to peer into the hole. Something had broken through the wood slats and it was no wonder given how old and rotted they looked. Dean shone his light down, frowning at the still and reflective water about ten feet down. He glanced towards where he’d found Stiles’ phone then back to the hole. Surely this wasn't where Stiles had fallen in water. Dean had assumed he managed to fall a small pond or maybe a deep puddle, certainly not through the floor into a shaft.

Dean flattened himself to the ground making sure to keep more than half of his body off the wood. The slats creaked alarmingly beneath him as he stuck his head through, shining his light around. The flashlight’s beam glinted of the still water, lighting up the small shaft easily. It was relatively narrow, only about four feet across and maybe six feet long. Dean couldn’t tell but he figured it was a great deal deeper. The walls were a mixture of wet rock and slick mud shining in the light. Along the edges of the water it looked like something, or someone, had ran their hands along the walls, smearing mud on the rock and pushing the mud up or down in places, almost like a search for a way out. The wall directly beneath him was the most disturbed, deep gouges running down it almost like claw marks as far up as Dean could see.

There was no other chambers attached to the shaft, and from what Dean could make out beneath the surprisingly clear water, the shaft simply continued straight on down. Dean scanned the walls once more to confirm what he already knew. The only way out of the shaft was the hole he was currently looking through. Whatever had been down there had clawed, or attempted to claw, it’s way back out—something that was pretty much impossible.

“Dude, what’re you doin’?”

Dean jumped sending a shower of dirt into the shaft and almost dropping his flashlight to the pool beneath him but retaining his grip at the last moment. “God, don’t sneak up on people like that,” he said twisting around and deliberately shining his light in Stiles’ face.

Stiles scowled at him, squinting and raising his hand to block the light. “Well you’re the one who disappeared on me,” he complained. “Seriously, what the hell are you doing?”

Dean pushed himself up, dusting off his knees before dragging Stiles' phone from of his pocket and holding it out. “Found this.”

Stiles flicked his eyes from Dean’s face to the phone hesitating a moment before reaching out to take it. “Thanks. Glad I don’t have to buy a new one.” He swiped his thumb across the screen to unlock it frowning and tapping at a few things before sliding it into his pocket. “You done looking around or did you want to crawl in the dirt more?” he asked.

Dean shone his light on the hole and Stiles raised a questioning eyebrow prompting Dean to ask, “That where you fell?”

Stiles shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.”

“What do you mean maybe?”

“Well, it was dark when I fell and after I was a little frozen if you remember, so the details may have slipped my mind,” Stiles said sarcastically. 

“But you did fall through wood?” Dean pressed.

“Yeah, I mean, I guess so.”

“Into a shaft?”

“Yes,” Stiles said sounding completely exasperated and muffling a cough. “Dean, why does this matter?”

Dean flicked the light back to Stiles making the younger boy blink rapidly. “There’s no way out of that shaft,” he said. “No way you would have been able to get out anyway.”

Stiles squinted looking perplexed. “Then I guess it wasn’t that one,” he said after a moment like Dean was an idiot.

“Then why was your phone next to it?”

Stiles shook his head slightly. “How should I know?”

“You said you dropped it when you fell.”

“No,” Stiles corrected. “I said I may have dropped it when I fell. Look, Dean, I got out of the shaft I fell in because I was lucky and there was a connected tunnel low enough that I could reach it and eventually I found my way out of the goddamn mine. I must have dropped my phone here before I fell. That or I unknowingly looped my path, which is a total possibility.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed still regarding Stiles critically. “I suppose so.”

Stiles sniffed, shrugging like it didn’t matter and resuming his trek to the mine entrance. Dean lingered behind a moment, glancing once more at the opening to the shaft and shining his light on the ground. There were two sets of footprints leading up to the shaft. One set was his and clearly recognizable. The other set was rushed, like the person had been running, and a perfect match for Stiles’ shoes.

* * *

As Stiles had suspected John hadn’t found anything in the mine either. Once Stiles, Dean, and John met back up it became clear there was nothing to be found in the parts of the mine they had searched lending support to the conclusion that the rawhead’s lair was not in the mine. Rather than wander aimlessly into increasingly dark and deep parts of the mine, John elected to scout the surrounding area of the lake. To cover more ground they decided to split up, John heading to the south end, Dean working around the lake to the west, and Stiles covering the woods to the east. Stiles was again given stern instructions to call Dean or John if he found anything and not approach the rawhead by himself.

Stiles wound his way down around the lake following no set path, acting more on intuition rather than logic. Since he didn’t know where to even start looking he figured letting the fates decide would probably work better. It was different than wandering around a city or town, not having defined streets to make turns on, but eventually Stiles found himself back in front of the mine.

Stiles stared at the entrance of the mine, listening the the hum of his spark and feeling completely lost. It didn’t make sense. The rawhead had gone into the mine and there was no reason for it to have done that unless the mine was its lair. The only other option was that it had known Stiles had been following it and had gone into the mine to throw him off. True, the rawhead had known Stiles was in the mine, but Stiles doubted it had realized Stiles had been following it to begin with. That would require more intelligence than Dean purported rawhead’s had.

Trekking back into the mine was not at the top of his Things I Want To Do List—it wasn’t on the list at all actually—but Stiles did just that. This time he didn’t bother marking the turns he took or try to take them in a logical manner. In no time he was deep enough that it was utterly dark and without Dean he had no flashlight. Stiles pooled his spark in his hand, welcoming the soft glow of the gold lines winding lazily down his arm, crawling over his palms, and spiraling around his fingers. Although it wasn’t bright, it lit the tunnels enough for Stiles to make his way through them, watching the ground for any more potential death trap.

It was several hours before Stiles caught sight of natural light again, shining faintly at the end of the tunnel he’d just turned into. He let his spark recede and paused at the mouth, hanging back in the shadows as he surveyed the woods around the mine. Everything seemed quiet and was cast in heavy shadows, the sun having dropped below the tree line while he was underground.

Stiles moved forward, satisfied that he was safely alone for the moment. There was a well-worn path leading from the mine up over a fairly steep hill. At the top and through the trees Stiles could just make out some sort of structure. He made his way up the hill, breathing hard by the time he reached the top and taking a break while he took in the building before him.

“Of course,” he wheezed speaking to no one in particular, but needing to appreciate the absurdity all the same, even as he tried to hack up his lungs once more. “The monster’s always hiding in the creepy house in the woods.”

Stiles stared up at the old house, half falling down yet still towering above him, monumental in its height. At one point it had probably been a beautiful building, no doubt belonging to some at one point in history rich family of the mines. Now it was eerily reminiscent of any haunted mansion Stiles had ever seen in film or real life, the rest of the woods falling unnaturally silent around the dwelling. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket, a steady influx of messages now that he had signal again. Stiles pulled it from his pocket watching the number of messages steadily increase along with notifications of several missed calls. He eyed the house speculatively a moment before drawing up his contacts and tapping on Dean’s name.

The hunter answered just after the first ring. _“Where the hell have you been? You've been gone for hours. We—”_

“Dean, I found it,” Stiles interrupted.

Dean stuttered to a halt and Stiles could almost see his dropped jaw and pinched eyebrows. _“What?”_

“The rawhead’s lair,” Stiles said. “I found it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> As always I can be found on [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a rawhead stealing children, and Stiles has one last chance to prove himself to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally back to writing, so sorry for the wait, y'all. Please enjoy chapter four!

**Hunting Chooses You**

“This is a Taser,” Stiles said holding the Taser up questioningly. Dad had left Dean in charge of giving Stiles a crash course in its use before they took down the rawhead in a few hours. Dean supposed it was a good sign that Stiles knew what Dean had handed him.

Dean arched an eyebrow crossing his arms. “Yes, congratulations on your superb observational skills.”

“Your dad said you’d teach me guns. And a Taser is not a firearm,” Stiles said inspecting the Taser in his hands intently with an almost morbid sort of curiosity. “You know I was tased once with one of these. Hurt like a bitch,” he continued blandly. “You ever been tased?”

Dean blinked absorbing the little tidbit of information. Dad had talked about it as a teaching experience once, something about how it was done in the military, before eventually concluding it wasn’t needed. And Dean had almost gotten tased by a cop once, key word being almost. “No,” he said slowly wondering if being tased was filed along with kidnapped and drugged teenagers, “and I’m a little disturbed that you have been.”

Stiles shrugged. “It was a necessary evil,” he said not bothering to elaborate. “And totally deserved to be completely honest.”

“You deserved to be tased?” Dean asked conjuring up a lot of scenarios where tasing a kid was appropriate and mentally organizing them by degree of likelihood. “What’d you do? Bang a deputy’s daughter?”

Stiles laughed though it sounded a little empty, like he would have preferred Dean’s hypothetical situation to what had actually happened. “Not exactly.”

“How do you not exactly bang someone?” Dean said furrowing his brow as he tried to puzzle that one out even if he was sure Stiles meant something completely different. “Was it like a part way through third and home base scenario?”

“If we’re going with this banging analogy then I wasn’t the banger but the bangee,” Stiles said frowning. “Well, I mean technically I guess I would be both.”

“Okay,” Dean said putting out a hand and diligently pushing away the mental image of Stiles masturbating that had flooded his brain. “ Now I’m really confused. And possibly psychologically scarred.”

“The point is that this is not a firearm,” Stiles said waving the Taser for emphasis.  

“Guns really aren’t useful against rawheads,” Dean said letting Stiles drop the subject because the Taser was more important at the moment, “but electricity is, so a Taser is more practical at this point.”

“So you want me to tase a sack of flour?” Stiles asked assuming a moderately correct stance and aiming the Taser at the sack of flour.

“Well it’s really old flour so,” Dean said correcting Stiles’ form a bit before leaning against the rickety banister and gesturing for Stiles to proceed, “give it your best shot.”

Stiles shrugged again, taking a measured breath before pulling the trigger. The taser prongs leapt away from the barrel, smoking slightly as they pierced the sack. Stiles blinked then furrowed his brows a little. “Looks as painful as I remember,” he murmured.

“Well you hit the sack,” Dean said ignoring Stiles’ comment. “That’s good.”

Stiles sniffed. “What, was I supposed to miss? I’m standing like ten feet away from it.”

“No,” Dean said. “But it would have been a bad sign if you had. At least we know you aren’t terrible. Now, these babies only have one shot.”

“Seems pretty useless.”

“Not if you hit your target on the first try,” Dean said tapping the Taser still in Stiles’ hands. “And remember this is all just precaution. You’re role isn’t to go after the rawhead.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles said, “I know. My role is to get the children out of the house and safely back to the car. So how hard is it to actually hit a rawhead?”

Dean pursed his lips pondering the question because there really wasn’t a simple answer. “Depends on if it’s stationary or moving,” he said. It also depended on the skill of person shooting, which was why Stiles’ primary part in the plan involved not needing to shoot the rawhead.

Stiles snorted leaning down to inspect the still slightly smoking bag of flour. “Obviously. But I doubt it’s gonna stand still and just wait to be shot, so hypothetically how hard is it?”  

“It can be pretty difficult. Especially in an area with a lot of obstacles or cover. They’re big and stupid, but they’re also fast,” Dean explained. “That’s why it’s important to know when to take your shot. Fire to soon or too late and you’re shit out of luck until you get a new cartridge.”

Stiles frowned, pulling the prongs from the sack of flour and rolling them between the pads of his fingers. “Good to know.”

* * *

“What is it with monsters and creepy houses?” Dean asked peering up at the house from where he and Stiles were lying on the ground.

“I dunno, man. It’s like canon law or somethin’ and everything creepy that lives in a forest lives in a creepy, half condemned house,” Stiles muttered shifting so he could pull a large stone from under his hip. The house was deceptively still before them, looking ominous surrounded by towering trees all the more menacing in the dark.

Stiles sniffed and tried to focus less on the cold seeping from the ground into limbs and more on the house before them. Although it seemed completely abandoned, Stiles could sense an aura of dread clinging around it along with a sordid air of death. It was making him feel slightly ill just being near it.

“Okay, Dad’s got eyes on the rawhead north of here so you’re up,” Dean said lowly. “You remember your part?”

“No, I’ve forgotten even after the several thousand times you’ve reminded me,” Stiles retorted then sighed at Dean’s bitchface. “I’ve got it really. Get in, get the kids, get out, get back to the car. Special note, don’t die.”

“Good. And watch yourself,” Dean whispered, “rawheads can be tricky.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Stiles hissed. “I know how to sneak into a building and rescue people without letting the big bad wolf know I’m there.”

“I don’t even want to know if that’s supposed to be literal or not.”

Stiles snorted and patted Dean’s shoulder before pushing himself up from the ground and moving carefully towards the house. He rounded the corner of the building heading towards the small ground level window to the basement. It was unsurprisingly dark inside; Stiles could make out a few shapes of large furniture but nothing more than that. Luckily it was old enough that the latch was broken and the window was easily opened.

Stiles held the window up as he lay down, shuffling forward until his head was within the basement. He wrinkled his nose at the rank smell, twisting around to scan the basement for anything from kids to monsters. His eyes were slow to adjust but there didn’t seem to be much of anything aside from several large pieces of furniture. Stiles pushed himself further forward, feet slipping in the damp leaves when he was half in. Stiles flailed, falling awkwardly to the cement floor with a muffled thud. The window clattered shut behind him and he winced reaching up to push it securely closed. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Stiles pulled it out to quickly read the message.

_From: Dean  
_ nice entrance dumbass

Stiles rolled his eyes and shoved his phone back in his pocket dusting his clothes off before moving forward into the basement. It was musty and smelled faintly of something rotten that Stiles sincerely hoped was not children because he honestly wasn’t sure how he’d handle that. Abstractly he knew the rawhead had to have eaten some of the children, but he didn’t exactly want to come face to face with proof of that. 

The basement was still and stale, almost oppressive in its silence. Stiles trailed through the rooms slowly following the faint hum of life exuding from a large cabinet in the corner of the one room. He stared at the cabinet a long moment apprehensive even though he knew what likely lay within. Stiles swallowed hard sending up a silent prayer as he reached out to grasp the latch and pulled it open quickly. The children inside gasped, pushing back in the corner as far as multiple children could. Stiles startled back at first then crouched, shushing the kids frantically.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m here to help,” Stiles whispered. “I’m here to get you out, okay?”

The children blinked at him, wide-eyed with shock, one older boy nodding slightly as the other children stared.

“Okay,” Stiles repeated waving his hands at the children beckoning them to get out of the cabinet. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but Stiles ignored it holding a hand out to the kid in the front. “Okay, come on. Everyone up. We’re getting out of here.” The kids hesitated, glancing at each other uncertainly. “Unless you wanna stay here and be eaten?”

That got them moving, the first boy grasping Stiles’ hand to pull himself up before turning around to help the others. He and an older girl got the others to their feet and out of the closet shushing the younger children. Stiles did a quick headcount coming up with five. That made three MIA and likely eaten children.

“The other kids,” Stiles started stopping when the older boy slowly shook his head. “Okay,” he said instead. “Let’s get you guys out of here.”

He herded the kids towards the stairs compulsively counting as they went to make sure none of them disappeared somehow. They were a quarter of the way up when the floorboards over their heads creaked ominously. Stiles froze motioning for the children to stop as well, holding his breath as someone moved overhead and his phone buzzed in his pocket again. Dust filtered down around them, tickling at Stiles’ nose as whoever was overhead moved away.

“Okay, plan B. This way,” Stiles whispered ushering the kids back down the stairs pulling his phone from his pocket as he did so. There were several texts from Dean each reading with increasing urgency. The rawhead had ducked John in the woods and doubled back to the house. “Quickly now.”

Stiles guided them through the basement to the window he’d entered through through. Stretching up on his tiptoes he scanned the ground as much as he could. A loud crash sounded upstairs followed by several successive thuds.

“All right,” Stiles said grabbing a piece of wood from the floor to prop the window open and beckoning the oldest child forward. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Thomas,” the boy whispered.

Stiles nodded and offered the boy a smile. “Thomas, I’m gonna hoist you up and then you’ll help the others, okay?”

Thomas nodded and Stiles quietly counted to three before lifting Thomas up to the window. The boy scrambled through with far more grace than Stiles had when entering. Once outside he turned around holding his small hands out to help the children as Stiles raised them up. The last child, a girl of about six or seven, pulled back when Stiles reached for her, eyes wide with fear as she stared up at him.

“Hey,” Stiles said crouching down so he was level with her. “It’s gonna be okay, all right? I’m gonna get you out of here and back home safe and sound.”

She blinked at him, glancing up to the window then back to him. “Promise?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Stiles said nodding. “Yeah, I promise. But I’m gonna need your help with it. What’s your name?”

“Sara,” the girl whispered.

“That’s a pretty name,” Stiles said smiling at her encouragingly. “I need you to be brave, Sara. Can you do that? We’ll just take it step by step. And the first step is out this window. Okay?”

Sara nodded, wiping a few stray tears away.

“Good,” Stiles said standing and grasping Sara under the arms. “Good. Okay, here we go.” He hoisted her up guiding her legs through the window while Thomas helped her from outside.

Getting himself out was harder than getting the kids out, the small window making for an awkward maneuvering space and his upper body strength not what it once was. He’d have to start working out more again, more than Dean’s PT regimen even. Nevertheless, he eventually managed to claw his way out wincing as he accidentally knocked the piece of wood loose so it clattered to the floor though it was unlikely to be heard over the commotion in the house. He pulled himself fully through the window flopping into the wet grass like a grounded fish while the children stared down at him anxiously.

He rolled to his feet doing another headcount as he shepherded the kids around the house to the woods whispering urgently for them to stay together and move quickly. They’d just rounded the corner, headed on a straight path for the Winchester’s car half a mile in the woods when the window shattered to their left, the rawhead landing heavily on the ground with a snarl.

“Shit,” Stiles swore, pushing the kids forward. “Run!” he shouted grabbing the youngest girl as she stumbled and taking another kid’s hand. Thomas pulled the others ahead, sprinting towards the trees. “Run!”

He could hear the rawhead’s heavy breathing behind him, a sinister feeling on the back of his neck even as they crashed into the trees, fleeing through the woods. Stiles didn’t know how capable five children were at outrunning a rawhead, probably less capable than Stiles was of outrunning a werewolf which only ever ended one way.

Having rawhead ram into him from behind felt a lot like what he imagined being hit by a car might be like though he didn’t actually have anything to compare it too. There was a moment of weightlessness before he slammed into a tree, which felt a lot like that time he’d wrecked his jeep. He wheezed, the air knocked from his lungs and ribs flaring painfully as he tried to draw in a breath.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and Stiles reacted instinctively pushing out a surge of his spark that flung the rawhead away with more force than was probably necessary. The rawhead growled, landing with a crash somewhere to his right. Stiles pushed himself to his knees, still trying to catch his breath as he stumbled to his feet leaning heavily on the tree. He reached around to his back for the Taser cursing when he realized it was missing, having likely fallen out during his impromptu flight through the air and sudden landing against a tree. Stiles searched the ground frantically, trying to pick out the Taser among the fallen leaves, stones, and broken branches. 

One of the girls screamed and Stiles whipped around exhaling shakily as he saw the rawhead crouched over one of the kids. He shoved away from the tree bolting towards them. His ribs protested the sudden strain, but Stiles paid it no heed as he leapt on the rawhead’s back digging his hands into the thing’s grimy hair and pulling for all his was worth.

The rawhead reared back and Stiles slammed his hand over its forehead squeezing his eyes shut and just visualizing lightening, power lines, generators, and everything else he could think of that had to do with electricity. He’d never done anything like this, wasn’t even sure what he expected to happen, but he believed and that was all that mattered really. Belief was more important than knowledge after all. The rawhead spasmed beneath him, collapsing forward with an earsplitting yowl then going still.

Stiles stumbled off it, crawling towards Sara panting on the ground. He pulled her to him, climbing to his feet with a wince as he scanned the trees for the other kids. They were grouped together a little ways ahead, all four accounted for, watching with wide eyes. Stiles motioned for them to keep running, stumbling after them and trying to ignore the concerning spread of warmth seeping into his side where Sara was clutching at him.

They ran for several more minutes, Stiles ignoring the growing fire in his lungs as they moved through the trees. He shifted the girl he was holding trying to alleviate some of the pressure on his ribs and stumbled to a halt when she cried out.

“Hey, hey,” he said easing the girl to the ground as the others slowly gathered nearby.

“It hurts,” Sara whined.

Stiles dug the flashlight out of his coat pocket, switching it on before handing it off to one of the kids to hold for him. “Hey, take deep breaths for me, okay?” he said trying to offer the girl a reassuring smile even as his stomach dropped at the amount of red staining her shirt. “Hey, I didn’t tell you my name, did I?”

The girl sniffed shaking her head slowly. “You didn’t.”

“I go by a nickname because no one can say my real one,” Stiles said gently tugging away her sweater and t-shirt. He swallowed roughly, mouth going dry at the deep scratches across her small abdomen bleeding profusely. “My nickname,” he said licking his lips and trying to figure out what to do to stop the bleeding. “My nickname is Stiles. Everyone always says my name is weird but it’s a lot less weird than my actual name so.”

Stiles tore his coat off followed by his hoodie and overshirt; he balled his shirt up before pressing it to Sara’s stomach.

“Stiles,” Sara whined, more tears sliding from her eyes as she squirmed to get way. “It hurts.”

“Shhh,” Stiles shushed her pressing down harder. He pressed his fingertips to her skin and started tugging at his spark, pushing energy towards her and trying to focus it on healing the scratches. Sara jerked beneath him crying out in pain. “Sorry, sorry,” he muttered shifting a little energy towards soothing rather than healing

“Stiles,” Sara whimpered. “I’m scared.”

Stiles shook his head rapidly forcing a smile. “Hey, hey. Don’t be scared. Okay? You’re gonna be fine. Just…you just gotta hold still for me, okay?”

Sara nodded, blinking a little sluggishly. Stiles pushed more energy towards her, trying to infuse enough to mend the wound quickly. He could feel the weakening pulse of her heart and life force, tendrils of it fading away almost as fast as he tried to replenish them.

“It hurts,” she murmured, sniffing through hiccupping breaths. “It hurts.”

“I know,” Stiles said pressing a hand to her face briefly to push a soothing surge of energy to her. “I know. Just be still. You’re gonna be okay.”

Sara blinked, energy dropping drastically. She sighed, seeming to fade all at once, a sudden drop into nothingness.

“No,” Stiles said pushing more belief towards her. His hands felt hot and his head hurt, the bond between him and his spark straining under the weight of his attempts to extend too much at once. “No, no, no. Come on, Sara. Stay awake, okay? Just keep your eyes open. I promised I’d get you out, didn’t I? So you gotta keep your eyes open for me. Sara?”

Stiles sucked in harsh breath pressing his fingertips to her skin more firmly and focusing on pushing belief through, drawing the healing powers of his spark out and to her. He felt the energy go out, seeping from his fingers into her. But it pooled without purpose, blanketing her in an aura of warmth. Her own was fading away, cooling and dissipating. Her eyes were shut, hair fanned out around her head, and she looked almost peaceful if not for the blood smeared on her cheek.

Stiles fell back from her, sitting heavily and choking back the screams that were clawing at his throat. The other children stared at him wide eyed and huddled together. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut forcing out the painful pounding in his head and ribs and gathering his scattered emotions back into a tidy box that he shoved deep down inside himself. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, forcing himself to draw in a steadying breath of cold air.

“We have to get out of the woods,” he rasped before clearing his throat. “We need to get to the road so I need you guys to be brave a little longer, okay?”

The older kids nodded solemnly and the littlest looked at Sara before asking, “Is Sara gonna be okay?”

Stiles shook his head and blinked away the tears gathering hotly in his eyes. “No, honey, Sara’s not gonna be okay. But we’re gonna get her out too, all right? I’m gonna carry Sara so I need you guys to hold on to each other, you got that?”

The children nodded again and Stiles forced himself to his feet before kneeling beside Sara. He pulled the remains of her shirt back down before carefully buttoning her sweater. He stood with her in his arms, arranging her to rest on his shoulder and held a hand out for Thomas to take. Thomas stared at his hand a moment then reached up and squeezed Stiles’ hand tightly. Stiles returned the gesture ignoring the tacky feeling of blood between his fingers and offered the group of kids a encouraging nod and smile. “Ready?”

Thomas nodded looking to the other kids, each holding tightly to someone’s hand. “Ready.”

* * *

Dean jogged out of the woods and let out a sigh of relief at the sight of Stiles leaning against the Impala’s trunk. That had been a disaster, the rawhead doubling back unexpectedly and being one of the smartest and fastest Dean had ever encountered. He’d missed each shot he’d taken, and even Dad had missed two in the house. When the rawhead had abandoned the fight between Dean and Dad in the house, instead taking off after Stiles and the kid, Dean had been legitimately worried. Outrunning a rawhead was a difficult feat for an adult let alone a bunch of kids, but they’d apparently lost the rawhead and made it out.

The kids were sitting clustered together on the ground by the passenger door of the Impala, at least four of them. A sense of dread spread through Dean as he took in the sight a little more, pace slowing a little as he tried to place what was wrong.

It wasn’t until he was closer that Dean noticed something on the ground by Stiles’ feet, a small hump covered by what Dean recognized as the scratchy blanket they always kept in the back of the Impala. It was old, half of it hacked off, and stained so thoroughly with blood it was almost impossible to tell that it had at one point been blue.

Dean halted, feet cementing to the ground for a moment as the pieces fell into place. Fucking hell. There was a child under that blanket.

Stiles looked up as if sensing his presence and Dean’s stomach somersaulted. Blood was smeared across Stiles’ forehead and down the left side of his neck. He shook his head minutely dropping his gaze down to the blanket at his feet. Dean kicked himself back into gear stepping up to Stiles and resolutely ignoring the blanket on the ground.

“Are you all right?” he asked twisting Stiles’ face towards the faint light of the moon to check for any wounds. Based on the amount of blood on his hands though Dean was reasonably sure he wasn’t the one hurt.

Stiles nodded mutely. “Good,” Dean said leaving his hands on Stiles arms as he looked to the kids who were watching him intently. “And you guys? Are you okay?”

One by one they nodded. A little girl, maybe four, leaning heavily on another girl said plaintively, “Sara’s not.”

Dean felt Stiles stiffen, heard him pull in a shallow breath, all but shaking apart as he exhaled harshly. “Hey, look at me. Look at me, Stiles,” Dean said moving his hands to Stiles shoulders and jostling him until he looked at Dean. “You can’t save everyone.”

Stiles nodded. “I know,” he whispered. “I know.”

“Four kids are alive over there because of you,” Dean continued.

“I know,” Stiles said. “I know.”

“Good. You did good, Stiles.”

“Did you get it?” Stiles rasped. Dean frowned shaking his head and Stiles narrowed his eyes. “It’s still out there?” he hissed. He shoved Dean away and pushed up from where he’d been leaning on the car turning towards the deceptively calm tree line.

“Stiles,” Dean said grabbing his arm. “There’s nothing you or I can do right now. Dad’s still out there and he’ll handle it. The kids were your priority tonight and you got them out”

Stiles yanked his arm from Dean’s grip shaking his head. “Not all of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Last chapter should be up next Sunday. 
> 
> As always you can find me on [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a rawhead stealing children, and Stiles has one last chance to prove himself to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, finally, after loads of revising and altering and nitpicking I'm uploading. I apologize for being late with the update, but it took longer than expected to get to the point where I was happyish with it. 
> 
> Fun fact #1: the scene in this chapter with John and Stiles was the first part of this series that I ever wrote.  
> Fun fact #2: I've added another part to this series which puts the total number of parts up to fifteen. We're not even halfway there yet. And then there's two more series after this one.

**Hunting Chooses You**

It took several hours to get things settled down and under control after Dad emerged from the woods with a look of grim victory. He took one look at the blanket on the ground and knew; the fact that they lost a kid was hard to swallow but knowing the hunt was ultimately successful went a long way in helping ease the pain of failure. Dean and Dad both knew that.

They got the kids back to Silver City, called in the cops and waited for them to arrive. Then the cops contacted the kids’ parents and they waited for _them_ to arrive. It was a whirlwind of flashing lights, county deputies and state police, paramedics, and frantic parents. Dad and Dean fielded the questions, weaving a story about how they were camping at a friend’s cabin, hiking through the woods, and happened upon an abandoned house where they found the kids in the basement. Explaining Sara’s death was a little harder, and at the end of it Dean was pretty sure the state police would be mounting some sort of manhunt for an imagined serial killer.

Somewhere between the woods and Silver City Stiles went quiet.

He remained silent the whole time, leaning mutely against the car and keeping his gaze locked on the ground, his only movements to push away a paramedic and a violent flinch when Sara’s parents showed up and saw their daughter. The police tried to talk to him, but Dean ended up answering most of the questions, fabricating yet another story to explain away his little brother’s silence and leaning heavily on the excuse of shock though as the words left his lips he honestly wasn’t sure how much of it was a false.

Stiles said nothing as they were allowed to leave, nothing as he shuffled into the back of the Impala, nothing as Dad drove them back to Caleb’s cabin, nothing as Dad got out of the car and disappeared inside leaving them alone, nothing as Dean pushed his door open and waited awkwardly for Stiles to move. He winced as he got out of the car though, face draining of color a bit as he clutched the car door, and that was when Dean clued in on the fact that Stiles might be injured.

“You hurt?” he asked moderating his tone a little softer than he usually did because Stiles sort of looked like a stiff breeze would knock him over. Stiles lifted his gaze to somewhere around Dean’s face, more staring over Dean’s shoulders than anything, and slowly shook his head. “Okay, I’ll rephrase,” Dean said with a sigh at the obvious lie. “Where are you hurt?”

Stiles straightened, pushed the door closed, and walked past Dean without a word. Dean blinked at the sudden dismissal then turned to catch Stiles’ arm pulling the younger man to a halt. Stiles hissed, stumbling slightly as he turned around, and Dean grimaced loosening his hold but not letting go.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Dean trailed off wiping a hand over his mouth and blowing out a short puff of air as he tried to figure out a good way to word it. “Look, I know you’re upset, and it sucks, like a lot. But there’s no point in you hurting, and I’m not about to let you bleed out on the floor of a shithole cabin, so just let me check you over, okay?”

Stiles just blinked slowly at him.

“Shit, you’re really out of it,” Dean said wondering if he’d been right about shock or if Stiles was hurt worse than he thought. He raised his hand, pausing and spreading his fingers in a gesture of peace when Stiles flinched a little, before running his fingers along Stiles’ hairline and scalp searching for any bumps or cuts. “Did you hit your head?”

The kid didn’t answer, but Dean didn’t really expect him to, getting the answer for himself when he found no wounds or bumps. It was a relief even though it meant Stiles’ shutdown was either blood loss, which Dean doubted, or something to do with mental health. Dean couldn’t say he was entirely surprised; the small glimpses Dean had gotten so far beneath Stiles’ walls hinted at someone who was far more stressed and broken down than he let anyone else know. Stiles checking out after his first loss was probably to be expected.

“Okay,” Dean said dropping a guiding hand to Stiles’ elbow and tugging him along. “Let’s get you looked at.”

Stiles followed him passively to the bathroom, sitting on the toilet when Dean nudged him too. Dean dug the first aid kit Caleb kept out from the cabinet under the sink pleased to see it pretty well stocked. He set it on the counter, setting aside a couple kinds of painkillers ranging from generic acetaminophen to oxycodone.

“All right,” Dean said crouching in front of Stiles. “Time to get out of those coats.”

Stiles blinked then narrowed his eyes giving Dean one of the iciest glares yet; the hunter was pleased to see some sort of response beyond a blank stare. Dean didn’t back down, simply arcing an eyebrow expectantly. Stiles’ glare didn’t soften, but he started unzipping his coat, shrugging it off before doing the same with his hoodie and grimacing a little as he did so. Dean let out a small sigh of relief at the sight of no blood; judging from that and Stiles’ careful movement it was probably bruised or fractured ribs. Stiles paused, fingering the hem of his long sleeved shirt and seeming to realize pulling it off over his head would be more than a little difficult on his own.

“Okay if I help with that?” Dean asked. Stiles didn’t answer but started pulling his shirt up so Dean took that as a yes and grabbed the hem to help.

It wasn’t until his gaze was roaming over Stiles’ torso with a clinical eye, wincing sympathetically at the mottled bruising spread along his right side and staring in surprise at the thick scar stretching across his abdomen, that Dean realized he only ever saw Stiles fully clothed. He knew the moment Stiles noticed Dean was staring at his scar; felt Stiles stiffen and lowered the shirt ever so slightly as if covering it up would erase the fact that Dean had already seen.

Dean cleared his throat and gently returned to working the shirt off the whole way. Tugging the shirt off completely revealed another surprise. From about the middle of each of Stiles’ forearms black lines interspaced with a variety of symbols wound up his arms and across his chest, trailing just beneath his collarbones. The line design looked somewhat Celtic and Dean recognized a few of the symbols as protective warding, one or two of the others vaguely resembled a wolf or a tree, but the rest were entirely foreign. “Whoa,” Dean said, a little awed that someone he’d been practically living with for a month had managed to keep the fact that he had an extensive tattoo quiet. Stiles said nothing, staring determinedly at the wall over Dean’s shoulder.

Clearly Stiles wasn’t in the right headspace to talk about it right now. Any and all questions about scars and tattoos would have to wait.

“Looks like the rawhead hit you pretty hard,” Dean said leaning in to inspecting the bruising a little closer and consciously not focusing on any of the scars or tattoos. “Or rather you hit something else pretty hard,” he amended frowning at the small cuts and abrasions half hidden by the already deep red and purple color of the bruise, “and I’m guessing that something was a tree.” He glanced up at Stiles waiting for some sort of confirmation that he was correct, but Stiles simply continued to stare straight ahead.

Dean sighed and prodded along Stiles’ ribs carefully, maintaining a clinical detachment even as he took note of a number of smaller scars marring Stiles’ skin in addition to the jagged one across his stomach.

“Well you’ve undoubtedly got some fractured ribs at the very least,” Dean said as Stiles gave a sharp hiss, flinching away from his touch a little. Dean let up on the pressure, going back to barely touching. “I can give you some painkillers and a compression wrap for the night, but I’m afraid with ribs there really isn’t all that much we can do about it. You’ll just have to tough it out, but you’ll survive and be right as rain in a few weeks. We’ll have to go easy on the sparring for a bit, though.”

He gave Stiles’ knee a reassuring pat before twisting to dig through the first aid kit for the small bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a few cotton balls. “I’m gonna clean those scrapes first. Probably sting a bit,” he warned before dabbing at the abrasions. Stiles sniffed slightly but otherwise remained still as Dean finished. He tossed the cotton balls into the garbage and pulled the compression wrap from of the first aid kit. He shook it out, finding the end and pressing it to Stiles’ uninjured side holding it firmly to his skin. Stiles’ chest hitched and Dean immediately reduced the pressure, gaze flying to Stiles’ face to check if he’d somehow caused him pain.

Stiles was staring at him, silent tracks of tears streaming down his face and chest jumping every so often with a harsh breath. He was trembling slightly too, like he was struggling to hold perfectly still.

“Whoa, hey, hey,” Dean said dropping the compression wrap and reaching up to cradle Stiles’ face. “No, no, don’t do that. Hey. Calm down, okay? Crying with broken ribs hurts like a bitch so it’s best not to do that.”

Stiles blinked at Dean’s face, tears spilling over more and taking rapid, hitched breaths that had to be painful as hell. Dean floundered swiping the pads of his thumbs over Stiles’ cheekbones as he tried to figure out how the hell to calm the kid down before he managed to hurt himself more. It felt like Stiles was shattering to pieces beneath his hands, like all those cracks Dean had caught glimpses of—at Bobby’s, in Oklahoma, in the middle of the nights or early mornings when Stiles actually slept—were splitting apart and all the walls were crumbling to dust.

Stiles dropped his gaze from Dean’s to the floor. “Get it off,” he whispered.

“What?” Dean asked keeping his hands on either side of Stiles’ head and feeling the rapid beat of the kid’s pulse against the palm of his hand.

“Get it off,” he said, sounding vaguely strangled and wringing at his hands. “Get it off. Get it off.”

“Stiles,” Dean said trying to get Stiles to look at him again. “What are you talking about? Get what…” he trailed off staring at Stiles’ hands still covered in Sara’s blood.

“Get it off,” Stiles said again faintly enough that Dean almost missed it buried under rasping breaths. “Get it off. Get it off. Get it off,” he repeated, saying it over and over again even as the words dissolved into unintelligible gasps of air, wheezing in and out of his lungs too fast.

“Okay,” Dean said. “Okay, just.” He glanced at the sink wondering if he should pull Stiles up to actually wash his hands off or just get a washcloth. Judging by his trembling, Dean wasn’t sure he could even stand at the sink.

Stiles choked, breaths stuttering over themselves and not quite settling back into any sort of rhythm. Dean swore, snatching a washcloth from the cabinet and soaking it in freezing water. He let the tap open, gushing water into the sink, and starting rubbing furiously at the blood on Stiles’ hands, working the rough cloth over the back of his hands and then the palms until most of the red was gone.

“I’m getting it off,” Dean said flipping the cloth over to work at Stiles’ fingers and the blood stuck in the creases of his skin. He rinsed the washcloth quickly, pink water swirling down the drain as he squeezed out the excess before returning to wipe the remaining traces from Stiles’ hands. “Hey, calm down, buddy. I’m getting it off,” he said working the cloth over Stiles’ skin once more. “There. See? It’s all gone. Your hands are clean.”

Dean tossed the cloth to the sink, folding his own hands over Stiles’ shaking ones and trying to meet his gaze. He still looked vaguely panicked, breaths coming in quick and irregular, but the worst of it seemed to have stopped. Dean offered him a reassuring smile. “It’s all good,” he said retrieving the compression wrap from where he’d dropped it and beginning to wind it gently around Stiles’ chest.

When he was done, he tucked the edge in to keep it secure and instructed Stiles to wait while he retrieved a change of clothes. He picked out the most comfortable things he could find without digging too much, a heavy pair of sweatpants, another long sleeve shirt, and a hoodie with several holes that looked two sizes too big and about twenty years old. Stiles changed into them without complaint at Dean’s choices, swallowed the painkillers Dean handed him without question, and left the bathroom without prompting.

“Here, you take the bed tonight,” Dean said redirecting Stiles from his path to the sleeping bag along the wall. Stiles didn’t put up a fight about it, something that equally relieved Dean and worried him more since Stiles had bitched about sleeping in any of the beds whenever Dean brought the subject up before always preferring his cot or sleeping bag. Given that Stiles always put the cot in the corner of the motel rooms and always slept with his back to the wall, Dean had eventually reached the conclusion it was a matter of feeling safe. Having Stiles simply curl up without objection in a bed that was basically in the center of the room was flat out weird.

“Dean,” Dad called over quietly to get his attention. Dean gave Stiles’ shoulder once last squeeze and dropped a heavy blanket over him before following Dad out to the main room. Dad pulled the bedroom door shut behind them crossing his arms and regarding Dean for a moment with a grim look that was slightly unsettling. “I assume since you asked me earlier if I got the rawhead that means you didn't.”

Dean furrowed his brows. “No. I didn't see it after I left the house.”

“I found it in the woods,” Dad said. “Fried to a crisp.”

Dean absorbed that information for a moment; if Dad hadn’t got it and Dean hadn’t got it but it still ended up fried then that meant only one thing. He glanced towards the closed door blocking Stiles from his view. “But Stiles didn’t…”

“Stiles didn’t say he got it?” Dad asked.

Dean shook his head thinking back on the conversation. “No. Actually he asked if we had.”

Dad pursed his lips. “So he either doesn’t know that he got it, or he’s hiding it for some reason,” he said furrowing his brows together.

“But why would he hide it?” Dean said, puzzled. It was just one more thing about Stiles that didn’t make sense added to an ever growing list of confusion. “I mean, we _gave_ him the Taser _to_ get it.”

Dad sighed wearily running a hand through his hair and blowing out a exasperated breath. “I don’t know, Dean. I don’t know.”

* * *

John tugged the zipper of his last duffle shut, giving the bed and nightstand one more scan to make sure he’d gotten everything before shouldering his bag and striding from the room. He paused in the doorway giving Stiles a calculating look. The kid had been quiet all morning, still sitting by the wall when John woke up and only coming to sit at the table after John got back with breakfast, coffee, and a newspaper. If his position hadn’t given it away already, John would have been able to tell the kid had barely slept just by bags under his eyes.

Stiles was staring at the black and white picture of the little girl in the newspaper again, hunched over the paper at the rickety table and looking about as with it as a kid whose pet had just died. John had glanced at the picture himself before flipping through the rest of the paper. It was probably a school picture; it had that awkward and forced pose but she was smiling all the same, the small bow in her hair crooked like it had fallen out before the picture and she’d tried to fix it herself.

“Stiles,” he said to catch the boy’s attention reining in the urge to snap when Stiles ignored him. “Time to pack it up. We’re leaving soon.”

“I watched it take her,” Stiles said quietly staring at the picture and completely disregarding John’s order. “I _let_ it take her. And I did nothing.”

John sighed unsure how to handle this or if it even needed to be handled. John would let the kid mope for a bit and work through the shock, but if he couldn’t handle losing people on the job he wasn’t going to last long in this line of work. “That was the plan, kid,” John pointed out. “You said it yourself, we never would have found its lair fast enough to save the rest of them without tailing it back.”

“But it didn’t work anyway. I should have done something that night,” Stiles continued like he wasn’t even listening to a word John was saying, at least no really.

John sighed again, scrubbing a hand over his beard and wishing he had a few more hours of sleep to deal with this. He set his bag on the floor coming up with a number of different things to say before settling on, “Stiles, this job isn’t glamorous. Sometimes people die.”

Stiles slammed his hand on the table shooting up from his chair fast enough that it toppled backwards with an obnoxious clatter. “She was seven!” he yelled taking John a bit by surprised though he masked it quickly. “And she was clawed to death by a fucking rawhead that I _let_ take her and did absolutely _nothing_ about!”

“Sometimes people die,” John repeated raising his tone only a little in response to Stiles’ outburst, “and sometimes its children.” Stiles clenched his jaw glaring at John like he was the reason for all the turmoil the kid was experiencing at the moment. John knew how Stiles was feeling because John was feeling the same, as was Dean. It never felt right losing a life on the job, especially when it was a child, but they dealt with it. “It isn’t desirable. It sure as hell isn’t fair. But it’s how this life goes. If you can’t handle it then maybe you shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh would you stop with the backhanded threats!” Stiles shouted throwing his hands up in the air. “Don’t try and pretend this is something you get used to or have to learn to accept to be a hunter! Because it’s not! Do you get that? You’re not supposed to let people die, you’re supposed to protect them!”

“It’s not a backhanded threat, Stiles,” John said seriously. “I mean it. If you aren’t prepared to lose some people along the way in this, you _will not_ last. You don’t just get to decide one day that you want to be a hunter and ride off into the sunset saving everyone from everything. You have to be willing to make sacrifices and handle losses because you are going to lose sometimes.”

Stiles seemed to crumble at that, expression breaking down into something hopeless for just a moment before building his walls back up. His shot a withering glare at John then stormed out of the cabin without another word. The door slammed behind him and John watched as he stalked across the yard coming to a halt by the Impala. Stiles dug his hands into his hair pulling hard enough at the short strands that John winced and kicking at the tires before collapsing against the car.

“You really think he hasn’t lost people?” Dean asked coming to lean against the doorjamb to the bedroom.

John huffed and started refolding the newspaper. “Of course not. I know he’s lost people. No one comes to this point without loosing people. I just don’t think he’s prepared to keep doing it.”

“Were you?” Dean asked.

John furrowed his brows caught slightly off guard by the question. “What?”

“After Mom,” Dean clarified, “when you’d just started hunting. Were you prepared to keep losing people?”

John clenched his jaw turning away from his eldest. The truth was he hadn’t been, not really. He’d known how it felt to loose those he was meant to protect but after Mary any loss had hit particularly hard. He’d crawled into a bottle more often than not to deal with the aftermath of quite of few hunts. And when he hadn’t been able to crawl in a bottle for some reason he’d had his boys to lean on; Dean to tell him it was okay and Sammy to ask a million random questions about the sky and frogs and prove there was still something innocent and precious in the world.

“Pack your shit,” he told Dean shrugging on his coat and picking up his bag again. “And pack Stiles’ too if he hasn’t.”

Dean nodded shuffling back into the bedroom with a murmured, “Yes, sir.”

John stepped onto the porch, breath puffing out a misty cloud in the chilled morning air. He counted to ten, resolving to stay calm no matter what Stiles decided to throw at him, and crossed the yard to the car. He leaned against the Impala next to the kid whose body was still visibly tense with anger, so much like Sam often was before he left. John never thought he’d have to deal with another episode of teenage or young adult angst and drama, but somehow this scrawny kid had worked his way in enough that John actually felt bad. So now some words of wisdom were required on John’s part. That’s how this whole mentoring thing worked; or, at least, that’s how Bobby described it. And fuck Singer for sending Stiles to him in the first place. He wasn’t a teacher and he certainly didn’t want to drag one more kid into this mess.

“No one chooses this life, Stiles. It’s something that happens to you. You’re not in too deep, you’re still young, you don’t have to hunt. There’s nothing wrong with moving on from this shit.” His voice sounded too gruff, too angry in the still air and he winced a little but let the words hang and waited for a reaction. Stiles, unlike Sam and his silent treatments, would definitely have a response.

Stiles was quiet a long time, John almost reevaluating his call that the kid was incapable of giving silent treatments, but then Stiles turned to look up at him warily. Not for the first time John wondered what the hell happened to the kid to make his eyes look like that, like a war vet returning from the trenches, because _something_ had to have happened. Children didn’t just look like that. It made a part of him want to force Stiles into putting this life behind him, to get as far away from hunting and the supernatural as possible. Figured the kids that could run wouldn’t, and the kid that couldn’t would try.

After a moment Stiles swallowed and glanced away, throat working like he was finally going to be honest but all he said was, “I did.”

John furrowed his brow in confusion, letting the silence draw more answers.

“I did,” Stiles repeated, and goddamn if it didn’t sound like he was about to cry. John shifted uncomfortably. Grief was not his strong point; grief was actually his weakness. He didn’t handle it well himself and he sure as hell didn’t help others handle it. “I did,” the boy said again and his voice cracked that time, eyes shining as he looked up at John, a misplaced smile of regret and sorrow gracing his features. He chuckled darkly, wiping at his eyes. “I mean I might not have known what it was, but I chose it. I chose it and a lot of people got hurt because of me. And no matter what I do people just keep getting hurt.”

He stopped talking, dropped his gaze from John’s to stare resolutely at the ground instead, arms wrapped around himself and shaking. John doubted it was from the cold. Stiles’ breaths were harsh and he seemed to be doing all he could to not break down into tears. John had to hand it to the kid, he was holding up remarkably well and, to be honest, John really didn’t want to deal with a crying teenager having what was probably going to be a Chernobyl of meltdowns. But Stiles was also just a kid. A kid who, judging by everything, had been through hell and emerged, somehow, on the other side all alone.

It was possible the kid had never even let himself mourn whoever it was that had gotten hurt in the first place. It was certainly clear he blamed himself, however true or misplaced that guilt might be. John could tell him to man up. To embrace the anger. To get up, quit crying, and do something about it.

That was what he told Sam. That was what he’d told, and continued to tell, Dean.

Man up; be strong. Action was more important than grief.

That was not what he’d tell Adam. That was not what he would watch Kate do. It certainly wasn’t what he’d watched Mary do. And right now Stiles didn’t need him. He didn’t need John. He needed a Mary.

“Stiles…” John trailed off, trying to work out the words of wisdom Mary would whisper. How to soothe. How to calm.

“I mean, it’s not like we weren’t warned,” Stiles said, laughing almost hysterically. “He told us what…what would happen, that we’d be marked. But we didn’t listen, you know?”

John frowned as he nodded; it was starting to sound like Stiles had been more than a little involved with witchcraft. Not completely unusual for teenagers, though they generally didn’t manage to cause too much damage. Not to the extent Stiles was implying anyway.

“We thought we didn’t have a choice. There _was_ a choice, but it didn’t seem like a choice then. It was easy and none of us thought,” he shook his head cutting himself off. “You know how you do something to save someone? Even if it’s bad, even if you know somewhere inside of you that you shouldn’t? You do it anyway because you _have_ to save them and you’d do anything.”

John nodded again, thinking of Mary and his boys and the lengths he’d go to save them, even though Stiles wasn’t looking at him, was staring out across the field. Stiles wasn’t shaking anymore, but the look on his face wasn’t one of calmness or peace. It was resignation. Despair. Empty like he’d shut down.

“It’s like…a person, multiple persons, people, they’re taken and they’re going to die. And if they die then a lot of people might die. And you know this. So you and others, you come up with a way to save them even though you know there are risks. But you don’t care because it doesn’t feel like a choice to you. There is no choice to make. You have to save them. That’s the _only_ choice. So you do and everyone is safe.

“But you let something out even though you didn’t mean to. And now people are dying and it’s your fault because you let it in, you weren’t strong enough to keep it out. And then the person who helped you do it is suddenly gone. And so many others. And the person you did everything for, they might gone too. And it’s your fault. And you start to wonder and think over and over, was it worth it? Was it worth it or should you have let them go at the start? Would it have been easier to just let them go?”

Stiles was crying openly now. John sighed dragging a hand roughly over his beard. “Stiles,” he started gruffly. “Look, you can’t blame yourself for making that choice. It’s never easy to let people go, and it would have hurt either way. It wasn’t your fault.”

Stiles laughed, hollow and dispirited, reaching up to scrub his hands over his face. “But that’s just it. The cherry on top of the goddamn sundae,” he said. “It actually is my fault. All of it.” He laughed again, and John furrowed his brows because the kid sounded like he was really loosing it. “I’m the one that started us down the path that led there in the first place. Let’s go find a body in the woods I said! It’ll be fun I said! What a fucking idiot!”

“Stiles,” John said, pitching his voice at a low and reassuring rumble, starting to actually be concerned with Stiles’ rapid breathing and trembling that was quickly approaching how it had been in the bathroom last night.

“My fault,” Stiles gasped. “All my fault. I can’t, I can’t get it outta my head. It just, just keeps playing over an’ over and it never ever stops. None of it. I just want it to stop. I keep trying and trying. I keep trying but no matter what I do I keep fucking it all up.” Stiles pulled in a shuddering breath that had to hurt his ribs, meeting John’s gaze with a look of such raw vulnerability and terror that it tugged a visceral reaction out of him, a sharp jolt fear that he hadn’t felt since he first thought he was straight up loosing his mind after Mary. “I think there’s something wrong with me, John,” he whispered, sounding utterly horrified at the idea. “There has to be. I’m broken or poison or cursed. I ruin everything.”

Somewhere between Stiles’ hitched and pained breaths and his choked words, John couldn't take it anymore. Some small part of him deep inside that still called itself a comforter reached out, touched the side of him named father and he was pulling Stiles to him before the action even registered with his brain.

It was awkward, John stiff and Stiles fighting against his hold a long moment before collapsing into it. Stiles gripped his coat tightly and pressing his face against John’s shoulder still mumbling how it was his fault. John set his chin on Stiles’ head, holding the boy close and wondered how long it had been since Stiles had been hugged. Thought about how long it had been since he had hugged anyone, his boys included.

The sound of the door opening brought John out of his thoughts, glancing over to the shack and meeting Dean’s gaze from the small porch. Dean looked sorrowed, eyebrows pinched and expression easy to read on his face as it nearly always was. Dean could deny it all day, but John knew the kid had a big heart and empathized with Stiles, probably more than John did.

Turning his attention back to the boy in his arms, John sighed reaching up to smooth the kid’s hair. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said again. “It wasn’t your fault.”

And if John didn’t quite believe what he was saying, and how could he without knowing the whole story, it was still what Stiles needed to hear.

* * *

Bobby sighed stretching in his chair and feeling his back give a satisfying pop. He rubbed at his temples squinting down at the small print on the page of the old book as he reached out to take a gulp of tepid coffee. Wrinkling his nose in distaste he set it aside, once again giving the small Latin print his undivided attention. The phone range shrilly, and he swore as he jumped and the coffee cup near his elbow toppled over when he reached for the phone.

“Balls,” Bobby grumbled grabbing a towel off the counter to try mop up the coffee answering the phone distractedly. “Singer Salvage,” he said holding the phone awkwardly between his ear and shoulder.

_“Mr. Bobby Singer?”_

Bobby frowned at the unfamiliar male voice and slightly formal tone. “Speaking, what can I do for you?” he said.

“ _This is Chris Argent,”_ the man said and Bobby raised his eyebrows in surprise pausing in cleaning up the spilled coffee. _“I was hoping you might be able to help me out with something.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thank you so very much for reading, kudosing, and commenting!
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)
> 
> And we'll see how things go, but I'll aim to start posting Part 6 on December 6th.


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